by Jim Powell
The reasons for staying with Judy are venal. She will look after me. She will feed me. She will attempt to moderate me, will not put me under any pressure. She will care for me when I am ill. She will be my memory when I no longer have one. She will scrape shit from the sheets when I am incontinent. She will bury me. No use saying that she might die first. She won’t. That will be her greatest sacrifice. At whatever cost, she will keep herself alive long enough to do these things for me. Then she will rest, duty done.
There is a word I could use to describe this behaviour. I am not worthy of using it. The worst part is that I can accept all the comforts and reject the word that gives them meaning.
What about Anna? I’ve tried asking myself what would have happened if Anna had not been Anna, but some other woman I had started to chat up in Tate Modern. Would I be in this situation now, driving up the A303, about to make this telephone call? Probably not, I think. Some of the rest of it, I expect. Perhaps even the visit to Somerset. Not more. And what if it had been Anna, but I had not lost my job, was still secure in my own small corner of nothingness? I don’t think things would have happened in quite this way either.
This is no use. Circumstances are what they are. We always start from here. It is indeed Anna. And I have indeed lost my job. The interaction of these two things has set a top spinning that hasn’t stopped spinning yet. Spin, spin, spin. Watch it spin.
I don’t know what living with Anna would be like. I’m now at peace with what happened in 1967. The hurdle of a past rejection has been removed. I can imagine some of what Anna has needed to do to rebalance her life, because I now need to do something similar to my own. I don’t know how fragile she still is, how complete the convalescence has been. She has been greatly damaged. I have no knowledge what further repairs, or ongoing maintenance, might be required. I may have to do for Anna what Judy would otherwise do for me. I don’t mind that. One element of an old self-image may yet abide in me, the sole surviving element from ’67, the image of a man who wants no more in the world than to care for Anna, to love Anna. In her context, I can use that word.
The choice might not exist, or not all at once. If the coin lands on Anna’s side in a few minutes, tails I’d think, and I find myself knocking on her door again later tonight, I don’t know what reception I will get. In my wildest dreams, I will be admitted and will never leave. Few of my wild dreams have been realized, or any of my dreams. This might be one that requires patience, possibly for months, possibly for years, possibly without any reward. That’s all right. I’ve done that before. I don’t mind living with hope. It’s living without it that I can’t face any longer.
The fact that we made love this afternoon means nothing. At our age, we can screw around as if we were teenagers. When we are young, we don’t understand the emotions. When we are old, we think we can handle them. It’s in the years between that things become complex, that everything has implications.
If Anna doesn’t welcome me back, if she makes it plain that she prizes her independence too much, or that her equilibrium is too precarious to run the risk, or that she simply doesn’t like me a great deal, perhaps I will stay in the Blackdown Hills. I could recalibrate my affairs at arm’s length, make generous provision for Judy, and stay there. Find a small cottage and rest up. I still don’t know what I’ll do with my time. I feel that the answers may come more readily there than in Barnet.
I really must make the call.
Aunt Lucy lives near Leicester. How far is that from Barnet? About an hour and a half, if I remember; say ten hours since Judy’s driving. Perhaps more on a Sunday evening. When would she have left? She’ll be home to cook supper, because she’s always home to cook supper. Supper is at eight. Supper is always at eight in the monastery.
How far to the M3? Let me think. If this road is 303 miles long, which it must be, because that’s its name, and if I’ve driven 40 miles of it, to take a random number, then there must be, there must be, well let’s say 250 miles to go. No. No. Because it started a long way back, before I got on it. Where did it start? Do you know, I haven’t the faintest idea. Not the faintest. Back in the mists of time, I expect.
There was a tractor following me for a while. I gave it the slip after a few seconds. They’ll have to do better than a tractor if they want to follow me.
I had to stop a little way back. I needed to check if I’d left any pills in the glove compartment, but I hadn’t. I didn’t think I had. Then I checked on the floor, to see if any had spilled out, the way they do. I did find something, but it tasted of mint. None of the other ones tasted of mint. Perhaps it’s some sort of promotional gimmick. Every tenth pill tastes of mint. Makes you buy more.
When I set off on Friday, I left it open when I’d be back. The meetings would last most of Saturday, I said. I wouldn’t be back on Saturday night, I said. It was too far and I would be tired. I would find a hotel and come back on Sunday, I said. I didn’t say at what time, and Judy hadn’t asked. She texted me yesterday to say that she had arrived safely at Aunt Lucy’s and she hoped my weekend was going well. I didn’t reply. She wouldn’t expect me to.
There’s a village signposted a short distance to the right. I turn off the A303. Better to make the call in a quiet village than on that noisy road. Goodness, there’s a real telephone box. Do they still exist? I think I’ll use it. Maybe it’s a replica. No it isn’t. There’s a real live telephone and it’s working.
I lift the receiver and call home. The answering machine will cut in after six rings. The phone rings five times.
‘Hello?’
‘Judy. You’re there.’
‘Yes, Matthew, I’m here. Where did you think I’d be? Where are you?’
‘Somewhere near Andover, I think.’
‘When will you be back?’
This isn’t the plan. I know there isn’t meant to be a plan, but this isn’t the plan. Judy isn’t supposed to be there. It’s raining, so this should be a day for buying coffee. God has broken the rules. No, not god. What did I decide it was earlier? Gate. That’s what I decided it was. Gate has broken the rules. But two can play at that game.
‘I’m not coming back.’
‘What do you mean, Matthew?’
‘I’m not coming back, Judy. I’m leaving you.’
There is a long pause. I think we may have been cut off. That would be quite convenient. What else is there to talk about, for goodness’ sake?
‘Judy? Can you hear me?’ I shouldn’t have said that. Should’ve hung up.
‘Yes, Matthew. Only too well.’
‘It’s not working, Judy, is it? For us. You know that.’
‘There’ve been better times,’ says Judy. ‘But life goes up and down. You have to expect the bumps.’
‘It’s been one long bump for ages.’
‘If you say so. That’s not how I feel.’
‘Well, it’s how I feel,’ I say. ‘It’s time to stop pretending.’
‘Coming from you, Matthew, that’s a bit rich.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Do you think I don’t know what’s been going on since June?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why do you think Rupert Loxley has allowed you to go on sitting in your office?’
‘Because he’s a moron.’
‘No, Matthew, because I asked him. You hadn’t felt able to tell me you’d lost your job. You were still pretending to go into work every day. I thought it would take some of the pressure off if you still had an office to call your own.’
‘Wait a minute,’ I say. ‘Wait a minute. How did you know I’d lost my job?’
‘Rupert gave me a pretty broad hint of what was coming at your birthday party in May.’
‘How dare he! He didn’t give me any hint.’
‘He felt he had, but that you were ignoring it. He’s very fond of you, Matthew. I know you don’t want to believe it, but he is. I think he feels guilty about you. He was trying to help you. We unders
tood each other perfectly without needing to say much. I asked him to call me if he ever felt it was impossible for him to keep you on. He rang me the morning he let you go. I’ve known all along. And I’ve done my best to encourage you to tell me, but you wouldn’t.’
‘Do you know what this is, Judy? It’s a conspiracy, that’s what it is. A stitch-up.’
‘Yes,’ says Judy. ‘It’s been a conspiracy to save you from yourself. And it’s worked quite well up until now, all things considered. I knew it would go wrong this weekend.’
‘Why on earth should you think that?’
‘Because your wind-farm meeting happened several weeks ago, so whatever you’ve been up to in Dorset, if that’s where you’ve been, it wasn’t that. I thought it would be good for you to have one or two things that felt like real work. When you seemed to be behaving yourself at the office, I asked Rupert if he couldn’t think of something for you to do. And this is how you repay me.’
I can’t think of anything to say. What a cock-up. Completely lost control of the situation here. My fault. I’ve changed the plan. You can’t delegate to Gate and then start cheating it.
‘Matthew, darling, you’re not a well man. You’re in no fit state to be making these sorts of decisions. We’re all worried about you. Not just me and Rupert. Sarah and Adam too. I went to see Dr Little and she kindly gave me the name of someone who might be able to help. I talked to him on the telephone. He was very pleasant. Of course he couldn’t say much without seeing you. He did say that it sounded as if you’d had some sort of a breakdown. You need help, darling. So why don’t you come home and we’ll see about getting it.’
I put the phone down.
There is a small supermarket near the call box, still open on a Sunday evening. I buy twenty cigarettes and a bottle of Scotch and go back to sit in the car. I stopped smoking ten years ago.
I don’t know why I changed the plan. That’s not true. I know exactly why I changed the plan. I might not know my mind, but I do know my heart. My brain was scrambled with indecision as to whether to go back to Judy, or to go back to Anna, but when the phone started ringing, before that fifth ring, before Judy answered, my heart was as clear as a ewe’s bell on an Alpine slope.
Leaving Judy was never likely to be easy. Had she been a woman to say, ‘Well fuck you, you bastard,’ or to go through the wardrobe and slash my suits, or to throw my belongings into the street and set fire to the house, it would have made things easier. Any tendency to doubt or guilt would have been subsumed into self-righteousness. I could have convinced myself that I was the injured party, married to a harridan.
Judy was always more likely to do the opposite, to smother the fire with the foam of softness and concern. Or, if I want to be bitchy, to disguise her self-interest as mine. She hasn’t called me ‘darling’ in years; we use our first names.
I light another cigarette, take another swig of whisky. For four months, Judy has known I’ve been out of work. When I’ve left the house each morning, in the fresh shirt she has ironed for me, with a briefcase supposedly filled with work papers, and she has wished me a good day in the office, she has known. She has concealed her knowledge like a spy, giving no hint that she knew, waiting for me to tell her.
And she’s done it all in collaboration with that shit Rupert Loxley. Can you believe it? My wife. My loyal partner ha-ha. In collusion with the enemy. I don’t spy on her. I don’t know what she’s been doing this weekend. Perhaps she never went to see Aunt Lucy. Perhaps she’s been bunked up with Rupert fucking Loxley. Fucking Rupert fucking Loxley.
But there’s a difficult question in all this, and I’d better think about it. Am I ill? Is it possible that I’m having some sort of a breakdown?
It’s not as if I haven’t had the same thought myself. As always, when someone else states as a fact something one has suspected oneself, it lends status to the declaration. It has crossed my mind that my thoughts have been sufficiently strange, my behaviour sufficiently erratic, that I may not be altogether sane at the moment. But then lots of things cross my mind that aren’t true. It proves nothing. And just because the same thought has crossed Judy’s mind, it doesn’t mean that either of us is right.
I will admit that at one point, a few weeks ago, or maybe a few months ago, I went to see a psychiatrist. It was on a Tuesday, that’s when it was. I went of my own volition. No one forced me to go. I should have thought that was pretty good proof there was nothing much wrong with me. If I’d been ill, I wouldn’t have known I was ill, would I? So I can’t have been ill. I went of my own accord.
Did the psychiatrist say I was ill? I don’t remember. He may have done. I don’t believe what psychiatrists say, so when he said that he wanted to see me again soon, I smelt a rat, and a very nasty pong it was too, and it was clear that he was only saying it because he wanted more money, and I was buggered if I was going to give him any more of mine, because that first session had cost me an arm and a leg, which is quite a lot to lose if you think about it, not to mention the cost of the pills he prescribed for me, which I should have thought I could get for nothing on the NHS now I’m sixty. Apparently not.
Perhaps I should get a second opinion. No need. I’ve got one already. That bloke I met in the pub was a sort of psychiatrist. A psychologist, anyway. Ernest: that was his name. Ernest by name and earnest by nature. I spent, what, several minutes with him. He didn’t think I was ill. I asked him directly and he said I wasn’t. He couldn’t have said that if it wasn’t true. Professional ethics. He didn’t think I was ill at all.
It must have been this last Tuesday that I saw the other shrink, now I think of it, or maybe several Tuesdays ago. I was feeling a bit tense. I got a week’s supply of pills, or a month’s. Who knows? I trebled the dose, like you do with aspirin and things. And whisky. They always tell you to take too few, in case you turn out to be an anaemic baby. That’s why I finished them on Friday. Unless there are still some in the glove compartment.
What he did say, this shrink, was that I was stressed. He told me that! I went to see him because I was stressed, and he told me I was stressed. Brilliant. Of course I’m fucking well stressed.
But that isn’t exactly mental illness, is it? Not by a long chalk. Two completely different things. I’ve spent a few hours with Anna being completely normal. Without pills. You couldn’t have told there was anything the matter with me, not that there is. That proves it. At some moments, I feel stressed; at others I don’t. When I’m with Anna, I don’t. All perfectly normal. That proves I’m sane.
I can’t light this cigarette. What’s the matter with it? I’m trying to light the filter. Idiot. That’s better. Where was I? Yes. Why is Judy suggesting a psychiatrist, when I’ve already seen one? Because it’s her psychiatrist, that’s why. She’s managed to find a psychiatrist who thinks I’m ill. She probably had to call fifty of them to find one. Perhaps he’s been unfrocked or whatever they do to them.
Anyway, that’s totally over the top. She’ll be trying to have me sectioned next. Or dosed into docility. That would suit her very well.
I bet that’s what she wants.
I WON’T LET HER.
I seem to be screaming. Why am I screaming?
All right. It’s all right. Calm down.
I’m not well. Let’s accept that. I’m not myself.
But I’m not ill. Not seriously ill. Just not well.
Well, what? What do I need? I need a rest.
I need a bit of TLC. And a few other initials probably. DSO and bar. Did somebody mention bar? And perhaps some . . . some . . . some of that. And some of the other. That would be good. That’s what I need.
I could go back to Barnet. Barnet Fair. Nothing fair about it. Fucking Barnet. I could go back to fucking Barnet and become a vegetable. Hello, Mr Cucumber, isn’t it a pleasant day today? Very pleasant, thank you, Mr Marrow.
This is no good.
Why did the lights go off?
Mr Cucumber is on his way to Barnet Fair with Bill Marr
ow, Jan Carrot, Peter Lettuce, Peter Broadbean, Dan’l Beetroot, Harry Chard, old Uncle Tom Cobnut and all, and all, old Uncle Tom Cobnut and all.
What time is it? Nearly midnight.
How can it be nearly midnight? I called Judy only five minutes ago. How can it be nearly fucking midnight? The whisky bottle’s almost full.
I must turn the car round. The roads will be empty now. It shouldn’t take me long. I shouldn’t think Anna goes to bed that early. I could get there before she does. I could sleep in the car, of course, or find a motel. Did I pass one on this road? I don’t remember. I wasn’t looking for one at the time. I probably did pass one. Maybe I should ring her. No, I don’t think I will. No reception where she lives. Besides, it would be hard to explain everything on the phone. Better to do it face to face, man to man. Man to woman, that is.
What I’m going to do now is to concentrate very hard. I realize I am not quite myself. It’s going to be all right, because Anna will make it all right. I’ll be fine once I’m there.
I will drive very slowly. Drive quite slowly and concentrate very hard. I will concentrate on being normal. I will arrive at her front door, perfectly normally, and say hello in a normal voice. And if she’s surprised, which I suppose she will be, I will act as if my return is perfectly normal.
I will remind her that she wanted to know what was on offer. I am now able to give her an answer, so she will be pleased about that. I am on offer. And then. Well, I don’t know ‘and then’. And then something will happen. It’ll be all right, because everything’s going to be all right, so it doesn’t really matter what it is. This is a bit nebulous, I know. But I’m not worried about it. There’s nothing to worry about now.
I think the future always feels like this.
11
In the early hours of sometime, I reach Anna’s cottage. I’ve no idea how I’ve managed to find it. I think Gate must have guided me here, like the one I’ve just driven through, up the track.